


Phoradendron Leucarpum

by NoelleAngelFyre



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (2014)
Genre: Budding Romance, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Family Feels, First Kiss, holiday tidings, kissing under the mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 13:53:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2853179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This, beyond a doubt, was the best Christmas ever.  Apritello (TMNT 2014) one-shot.  Merry Christmas!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phoradendron Leucarpum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sleepingseeker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepingseeker/gifts).



> Just a little tidbit of yuletide cheer for my fellow Apritello shippers, and a gift for my friend (and fellow shipper) sleepingseeker. Consider this a separate segment from the "2nd Time Around" series; just a little piece of holiday fluff for all to enjoy. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

This, beyond a doubt, was the best Christmas ever.

Sensei is resting on the couch, sipping a cup of the fresh herbal tea she’d given him, with a look of relish on his face; he meets her gaze, briefly, and nods with a twinkle in his eye. She smiles and returns the gesture before turning attention to the boys. Raph and Mikey are already hard at work, locked in an impassioned contest with their new video game; the latter seems to be on the losing end, if the smug expression on Raph’s face is anything to go by. Leo is hip-deep in _The Power of a Leader_ , his eyes drinking in every word like it is a prayer book. The other two books she presented to him earlier— _The Interpretation of Dreams_ and _A Man Called Thursday_ —are close by; she’s sure he’ll be reading them well before the night is done.

And Donnie is bent nearly in half over the kitchen counter, his eyes and hands carefully admiring the new chemistry set and stack of journals she gave him. A smile lifts her lips as she takes in the reverent expression on his face; she’s sure he’s already calculating the different theories he can start developing and perfecting. She remembers the way his eyes had widened, nearly to perfect circles, when he’d opened the gift, when he’d held a set of chemistry tubes and flasks and vials that were in pristine condition, a world apart from the aged and well-worn set he’s been working with for years. He, of all of them, had truly looked like a child on Christmas morning. The kind of Christmas morning he’d been denied for too long. All of them had been denied the kind of joy and delight that every youth should experience on this day.

She is determined it would never be this way again. From hence forth, they’ll know about the true meaning of Christmas. The meaning her father had always shown her, year after year; she’s sure, absurdly enough, that had he lived, her father would have taken the turtles in. Odd as it sounds— _impossible as it may have been_ —she feels he would have raised them like a family. And they would have known more holidays like this one.

Her eyes drop to the right, where one last little item has been waiting to be opened. She smiles, picks it up, and makes her way to the kitchen.

***

He traces the smooth, slick glass exterior of a flask with all the reverence of a jeweler handling fine gems. His mind can barely contain the excitement and delight. No more tinkering with stained and burnt materials; trying to properly calculate the right amounts and liquid levels through the smudged glass and overly-used measuring tools. _And_ a cleaning set; he’ll be able to clean them properly after each use. He can scarcely believe it.

But the excitement is somewhat dampened by his shame. He’s sure, in some way or another, his brothers feel the same embarrassment as he does. The surprise which had quickly turned into a muted kind of disgrace, seeing April skip into the lair, the picture of festive cheer with her thick dark locks drawn up and loosely tied with a golden ribbon, wearing a warm crimson sweater and dark jeans, and matching red earrings hanging from her ears, ones that gave a little _jingle_ with each movement of her head. She had been positively radiant, smiling and beaming the moment she’d entered, both arms filled with brightly wrapped gifts and bags filled with food.

And they’d had nothing in return. They hadn’t even been expecting her company today; just the usual quiet family celebration with whatever food had been available in the lair. But there she’d been, without warning, and had helped them prepare a holiday feast. She’d given them everything they could ever have imagined, and more, and nothing had been given in return.

Strangely enough, she hadn’t cared. He can only think she is, truly, the embodiment of _the season of giving._ Giving, not caring if she received in return. He isn’t quite sure what, exactly, they had done to deserve her. But, naturally, they aren’t complaining.

“Hey,” her voice is an unexpected interruption to his thoughts; he turns to his left and finds her holding out a small box, “I forgot about this one.”

He blinks, looking at it for a minute, then looks back at her. “You…you don’t have to give any more, April. This…this is plenty. I mean, more than we…more than we deserve.” He finished rather quietly, but is sure she heard him nonetheless.

“Tis the season,” she smiles, nudging his shoulder with hers gently; her hand extends the gift closer to him, “Come on, Donnie. It’s all about giving.”

 _But we should be the ones giving to you_ , he thinks somberly, even as he takes the small package. She’s done so much, given them more than even they truly know—they have so few memories of living in the lab, of the tenderness and care she showed them then; he’d give anything to have those memories intact and vivid, just to remember her in that time and place—and she just continues doing more without receiving what she deserves. He doesn’t think it is fair, and yet he isn’t sure how to correct it. Cool logic and rational thought, the curse of being the practical one, clashes brutally with the threads of emotional connection developing too rapidly and much too far out of his control when she is nearby. Part of him wants to give her a gift she would use, one which would enhance her everyday quality of life. The rest of him, the part growing more and more with each day, wants to give her something else. Something that could, somehow and someway, express what his words cannot.

He looks at the box, silently admiring the simple presentation of a black box and a thick ribbon, bright purple, before carefully pulling the wrapping free. He sets it aside, near his chemistry set; he knows it’s silly, and she may think him overly sentimental, but he doesn’t have the heart to throw it away. It’s something so simple, so delicate, and yet so precious because it came from her. Later, he’ll put it with the wrappings he saved from her other gifts. He may never use them again, but nor does he think he’ll discard them.

His adoring expression becomes one of slight confusion as he looks inside. It’s some kind of plant; very small and very green. He doesn’t recall seeing it before, though it’s possible he’s seen it in one of his books and just doesn’t remember it. Perhaps a closer examination will help him.

Using two fingers, he carefully lifts it out of the box and holds it up to the light. Yes, it’s very green and leafy, and with a cluster of small white berries in the middle. His mind circulates for a few seconds, seeking out the proper identification, and then it clicks. _Phoradendron leucarpum_ , of the family _Santalaceae_. He remembers reading some references to holiday traditions regarding the plant’s use, but he can’t recall exact specifics.

He can’t recall exact specifics, because April is suddenly close—very, _very_ close—and then he feels the soft warmth of her lips against his. No warning, no indication of her thoughts or intentions; just a smooth, fluid movement, and her mouth is on his mouth and he’s fairly certain this is what humans call a _kiss_.

After what feels like an hour—one glorious, terrifying hour—she pulls back just enough that he can see her calm expression, and he’s sure she has a full view of his singularly stupid, gaped-mouthed expression. He probably looks like a fish out of water, gulping down air and flopping around on the floor. Which, if it weren’t for his free hand holding him up on the counter, would be his current position.

“You kissed me.” He says, and now he’s officially declared himself an imbecile. One would think he could have mustered up enough intelligence to not declare the obvious.

Her smile only throws him more off-balance; he isn’t sure what to make of the expression and he really isn’t sure what to make of the way she rests against the counter, leaning even closer to him. His face is burning; he thinks he needs a very cold shower. Right now.

“It’s tradition.” She answers coyly, shrugging one shoulder. “You were under the mistletoe.”

Technically, he was on equal level—at least, more or less—with the mistletoe, which he isn’t quite sure properly qualifies as “being under”. But he’s not sure it really matters, because she’s leaning very close again, and she’s still smiling.

“In fact,” she continues, her voice lowering to a delicate whisper, “you’re _still_ under the mistletoe.”

Oh. _Oh, right._ Yes, he is. His arm became automatically frozen in place, dangling the plant exactly two inches and five centimeters above his head and hers, and it’s still there. And only when she curls her arms around his neck, tugs him down, and meets his lips with hers again, does the plant fall from his fingers and land somewhere on the floor. He should feel terribly guilty, because it deserved a more proper burial. But his hand is more content to find its way into her hair and stay there for a while.

And this, beyond a doubt, just became the best Christmas ever.


End file.
